An Exercise In Futility
by Sylla
Summary: When a dear fried is ill, what else can an authoress do but coerce a certain canonical character into cheering her up? [giftfic for Bustahead]


**Important alert!** This is a gift fic for my friend bustahead, who is sick and having a very hard time of it.

Anyone who reads this, **please go over to her account and wish her well, okay?** www. fanfiction. net/ u/ 344135/ BustaheadBustahead (eliminate the spaces.)

_Thank you._

Disclaimer: I don't own DMC or any of the canon characters. Or Busta, don't own her either. XD

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**10:58 AM**

**Agency HQ**

**Barcelona**

It was a slow day at the agency headquarters in Barcelona. Outside, the summer sun beat down relentlessly on buildings, cars, natives and tourists alike, but it could have been twilight for all the sun that penetrated through the thick tinted windows of the towering building.

But that's not the focus of this tale.

Anyway, sun (or lack of it) aside, it was a slow day at the agency HQ. Which, of course, meant that everyone was on the edge of their seats. Because, as every Hunter worth their salt knew, slow days almost always meant that something was coming. Usually something big with pointed claws and razor-like teeth.

Despite the feeling of impending doom that permeated the halls of the HQ, however, Aline sat dozing in her office. Even though Aline, as a demonologist, used her office a great deal more than the other Hunters (many of whom had forgotten they even _had _offices), it was still one of the last places people would think to look for her.

The fact that it looked more like the site of a bombing than an office might have helped in that respect.

But I digress.

As I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself, Aline was dozing in her office. However, the aforementioned feeling of impending doom was still strong enough that the small ringing noise that suddenly sounded near her elbow was enough to make her jump right out of her seat and _almost_ put a few rounds though the door before she realized that it was just her computer signaling a new message. Please pause to take a deep breath after that last sentence.

Muttering obscenities, Aline opened the message. Her faced paled at what she read:

_Gotta talk w/ you. On my way down. _

_-S. _

She had barely finished reading the words when the door to her office seemed to implode. In reality, though, it was merely opened with so much force that it slammed into the bookcases behind it, dislodging several books and a Hershey bar Aline had hidden (and forgotten) there several months prior. She had no time to dwell on the Hershey bar, however, because the cause of the disturbance strode in and slammed her palms down on Aline's desk.

This was, of course, Aline's longtime friend and fellow Hunter, Sylla. She was also Aline's boss by virtue of having created her, which was meant to be a secret but wasn't.

"Aline!" she greeted. The feeling of impending doom intensified.

Aline bit her lip. "What is it?" she asked as mildly as possible. Sylla, not being one to waffle (much), cut directly to the chase.

"A friend of mine is sick," she declared. "Bustahead- you remember her, right? My companion and friend?"

"The other authoress? Of course I remember her."

The feeling of impending doom was so strong now that it could have been cut with a knife and sold in little boxes.

"Correct," said Sylla, ignoring the narrator's comments. "And she is _sick_! In fact," she put a hand to her forehead, "she's Deathly Ill! Note the use of capitals!"

Aline frowned.

"I'm sure it can't be _that_ bad."

"Well, _perhaps_ not," Sylla amended, "but that's not the case. The case is that I need a favor of you."

Aline's hand twitched.

"What kind of a... favor?"

Sylla grinned, leaned forward and whispered something in her ear. Aline's reaction was immediate and explosive.

"What?! Why me?"

"Because you know him better. Anyway, you're _really_ good friends, right? He'll do it if you ask him."

"Absolutely not! I refuse to do that to him... to a friend!"

"Oh, I think you will." Sylla's grin grew even wider. "Because if not I'll..." she leaned forward again and whispered something else. Aline's eyes widened.

"You wouldn't!" she gasped.

"I can and I will," Sylla stated calmly.

Sighing in defeat, Aline reached for the phone and dialed a number.

"Hello... It's me. Can you come? It's very important."

—

A man strode down the halls of the agency towards Aline's office, leather boots resounding of the marble floor. For the purpose of cheap literary suspense, he shall remain nameless for now- though I'm certain you, dear reader, can imagine who he might be.

Anyway, said man walked with purposeful strides down the halls of the agency's demonology floor, until at last he stopped outside a nondescript oak door (nondescript by virtue of being exactly the same as almost every other door in the building). Pausing a moment to knock, he then opened the door and stepped inside.

Aline sat at the desk at the far end of the room, a look of defeat on her face.

"Hey," she greeted tiredly.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "And..." he looked around, spying the other occupant of the room. "Why is Sylla here?"

"That's the thing. She... I need a favor. A friend of Sylla's- Bustahead- is sick, and..." Aline trailed off.

"And?" he prompted.

"And I need you to visit her for a while. You know, to cheer her up," Sylla smiled.

"Bustahead?" He paled slightly.

"Yes."

"Why not Dante?" His voice took on a slight note of desperation.

"She likes you better."

"Absolutely not."

"Yes you will. Or I'll have you and Sher get together by the end of the fic," Sylla threatened ominously. His eyes narrowed.

"You wouldn't."

"That's just what Aline said," Sylla responded. "Though she sounded more outraged and less murderous," she mused. Then she shook her head. "Anyway, I've only notified you out of courtesy. You_ will _do it, and that's that. The only reason you're not amnesiac Nelo right now is because you're much more awesome with your wits about you."

"Why, thank you." he said wryly.

"You're welcome. Remember, I _am_ the authoress here."

"I thought that was supposed to be a secret."

"There are no secrets in Barcelona, only- no, screw it, _there are no secrets_."

Vergil sighed.

"Why me?" he murmured again.

—

There was a soft knock on the door of the university dorm.

"Busta? You in?" Sylla opened the door. "Oh. She's sleeping."

"Wonderful." Vergil sounded somewhat relieved. "We'll come back later." He turned to leave.

"Not so fast." Sylla grabbed him by the collar and hauled him into the room.

"Busta?" she said again. A groan came from the human-shaped lump on the bed.

"Sylla? Why, hello."

"Hey," Sylla said brightly. "Look who I've brought with me!"

Bustahead lifted her head and peered groggily at the silver haired half-devil, who immediately froze in his tracks.

"Vergil," she stated with a satisfied smile. She stretched out one arm.

"Go on." Sylla pushed him lightly.

With another sigh, Vergil sat on the bed and allowed Bustahead to cuddle his arm. She did so delightedly, then promptly went back to sleep. Vergil fumed to himself. Once the fic was over, he vowed, he would have words with the authoress, _fourth wall or no_.

"Wonderful!" Sylla beamed. The look on Aline's face seemed to be a mixture of mortification, embarrassment and possibly the slightest bit of amusement.

"I'll bring you a book first chance I get," she promised in a low voice.

Vergil nodded as they left the room and shut the door after them. He looked at the happily slumbering human latched onto his arm.

With another sigh, the son of Sparda settled down for along, _long_ wait.


End file.
